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from The novels and stories of Ivan
Turgenieff, Vol. XIII: Phantoms and other stories
Translated from the Russian by Isabel F. Hapgood
LONDON: J.M. DENT & CO.
ALDIEN HOUSE
BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN
1905
Entbehren sollst du, sollst entbehren.
"FAUST." (Part I.)
VILLAGE OF M....OE, June 6, 1850.
I ARRIVED here three days ago, my dear friend, and, in accordance with my promise, I take up my pen to write to thee. A fine rain has been drizzling down ever since morning; it is impossible to go out; and besides, I want to have a chat with thee. Here I am again, in my old nest, in which I have not been--dreadful to say--for nine whole years. Really, when one comes to think of it, I have become altogether another man. Yes, actually, another man. Dost thou remember in the drawing-room the small, dark mirror of my great-grandmother, with those queer scrolls at the corners? Thou wert always meditating on what it had beheld a hundred years ago. As soon as I arrived, I went to it, and was involuntarily disconcerted. I suddenly perceived how I had aged and changed of late. However, I am not the only one who has grown old. My tiny house, which was in a state of decrepitude long since, hardly holds itself upright now, and has sagged down, and sunk into the ground. My good Vasílievna, the housekeeper (thou hast not forgotten her, I am sure: she used to regale thee with such splendid preserves), has quite dried up and bent together. At sight of me, she could not cry out, and she did not fall to weeping, but merely grunted and coughed, sat down exhausted on a chair, and waved her hand in despair. Old Terénty is still alert, holds himself erect as of old, and as he walks turns out his feet clad in the same yellow nankeen trousers, and shod with the same squeaking goat's-leather shoes, with high instep and knots of ribbon, which evoked your emotions more than once.... But great heavens!--how loose those trousers now hang on his thin legs! how white his hair has grown! And his face has all shrivelled up to the size of your fist; and when he talked with me, when he began to make arrangements and issue orders in the adjoining room, I found him ridiculous, and yet I was sorry for him. All his teeth are gone, and he mumbles with a whistling and hissing sound.
On the other hand, the park has grown wonderfully beautiful: the little modest bushes of lilac, acacia, and honeysuckle (you and I set them out, dost remember?) have grown up into magnificent, dense thickets; the birches and maples have all spread upward and outward; the linden alleys in particular, have become very fine. I love those alleys, I love their tender grey-green hue, and the delicate fragrance of the air beneath their arches; I love the mottled network of circles of light on the dark earth--I have no sand, as thou knowest. My favourite oak-sapling has already become a young oak-tree. Yesterday, in the middle of the day, I sat for more than an hour in its shade, on a bench. I felt greatly at my ease. Round about the grass gleamed so merrily green; over all lay a golden light, strong and soft; it even penetrated into the shade .... and how many birds I heard! Thou hast not forgotten, I trust, that birds are my passion! The turtle-doves cooed incessantly, now and then an oriole whistled, a chaffinch executed its charming song, thrushes waxed angry and chattered, a cuckoo answered from afar; suddenly, like a madman, a woodpecker uttered a piercing scream. I listened, listened to all this soft, commingled din, and did not want to move, and in my heart was something which was not indolence, nor yet emotion.
And the park is not the only thing that has grown up; sturdy, robust lads, in whom I should never have recognised the little urchins whom I used to know, are constantly coming under my eye. And thy favourite, Timósha, has now become such a Timofyéi as thou canst not picture to thyself. Thou hadst fears for his health then, and predicted consumption for him; but thou shouldst take a look now at his huge, red hands, and the way they stick out from the tight sleeves of his nankeen coat, and what round, thick muscles stand out all over him! The nape of his neck is like that of a bull, and his head is all covered with round, blond curls,--a regular Farnese Hercules! His face has undergone less change, however, than the faces of the others have; it has not even increased greatly in size, and his cheery, "gaping" smile, as thou wert wont to express it, has remained the same as of yore. I have taken him for my valet; I discarded my Petersburg valet in Moscow: he was altogether too fond of putting me to shame, and making me feel his superiority in the usages of the capital.
I have not found a single one of my dogs; they are all dead. Néfta alone outlived the rest--and even she did not survive till my arrival, as Argos waited for Ulysses; she was not fated to behold her former master and comrade of the hunt with her dimmed eyes. But Shávka is still sound, and still barks hoarsely, and one ear is torn, as usual, and there are burrs in his tail, as is fitting.
I have established myself in thy former
chamber. The sun strikes on it, it is true, and there are a
great many flies in it; but, on the other hand, it has less
of the odour of an old house about it than the other rooms.
'T is strange! that musty, somewhat sour and withered odour
acts powerfully on my imagination. I will not say that it is
disagreeable to me--on the contrary; but it evokes in me
sadness, and, eventually, dejection. Like thyself, I am very
fond of the pot-bellied chests of drawers with their brass
fastenings, the white arm-chairs with oval backs and curved
legs, the glass chandeliers covered with fly-specks, with
the huge egg of purple tinsel in the middle,--in a word, all
sorts of furniture belonging to our grandfathers; but I
cannot look at all this constantly: a sort of perturbed
tedium (precisely that!) takes possession of me. In the room
where I have settled myself, the furniture is of the most
ordinary description, homemade; but I have left in one
corner a tall, narrow cupboard with shelves, on which,
athwart the dust are barely visible divers old-fashioned,
pot-bellied vessels, of blue and green glass. And I have
given orders that there shall be hung on the wall,--thou
wilt recall it,--that portrait of a woman, in the black
frame, which thou wert wont to call the portrait of Manon
Lescaut. It has grown a little darker in these nine years;
but the eyes look forth as pensively, slily, and tenderly as
ever, and the lips smile in the same frivolous and mournful
way as of old, and the half-stripped rose dangles as softly
as ever from the slender fingers. The window-shades in my
room amuse me greatly. Once upon a time they used to be
green, but have grown yellow in the sunlight. Upon them, in
black, are painted scenes from d'Arlincourt's "Hermit."
On one shade, this hermit, with the biggest sort of a beard,
staringly- At first the memories of my childhood invaded
me.... Wheresoever I went, whatsoever I looked at, they
surged up from every direction, clear, clear to the most
minute details, and motionless, as it were, in their
distinct definiteness...Then those memories were succeeded
by others; then . . . then I softly turned away from the
past, and there remained nothing in my breast save a sort of
dreamy burden. Just imagine! As I sat on the dam, under the
willow, I suddenly fell to weeping, quite unexpectedly; and
would have wept for a long time, in spite of my advanced
age, had I not been mortified by a passing peasant-wife, who
stared at me with curiosity, then, without turning her head
toward me, made a straight, low obeisance, and walked past.
I should have liked greatly to remain in that frame of mind
(I shall not weep any more, of course) until my departure
hence, that is to say, until the month of September; and I
shall be very much chagrined, if any one of the neighbours
should take it into his head to call on me. However,
apparently, there is nothing to fear in that quarter; for I
have no near neighbours. Thou wilt understand me, I am
convinced; thou knowest, from thine own experience, how
beneficial solitude often is.... I need it now, after all
sorts of wanderings.
But I shall not be bored. I have brought with
me several books, and I have a very fair library here.
Yesterday I opened the cases, and rummaged for a long time
among the musty books. I found many curious things, which I
had not noticed before: "Candide," in a manuscript
translation of the '70s; newspapers and journals of the same
period; "The Triumphant Chameleon" (that is to say,
Mirabeau); "Le Paysan Perverti," and so forth. I came
upon some children's books, my own, and those of my father, and
my grandmother, and, even--just fancy!--of my
great- Such were the reveries to which thy friend,
aged almost forty, surrendered himself as he sat solitary,
in his isolated little house! What if some one had seen me?
Well,what if they had? I should not have been in the least
ashamed. To feel ashamed is also a sign of youth; but I have
begun to notice that I am growing old, and knowest thou why?
This is the reason. I now try to magnify to myself my
cheerful sensations, and to belittle the mournful ones,
while in the days of youth I proceeded on the diametrically
opposite plan. One goes about then hoarding his sorrow as
though it were a treasure, and is ashamed of a cheerful
impulse....
And nevertheless, it seems to me that,
notwithstanding all my experience of life, there is still
something more in the world, friend Horatio, that I have not
experienced, and that that "something" is about the
most important of all.
Ekh, how I have run on! Farewell! until
another time. What art thou doing in Petersburg? By the way:
Savély, my rustic cook, asks to be remembered to
thee. He also has grown old, but not too much so, has waxed
fat and somewhat pot-bellied. He makes just as well as of
old, chicken soup with boiled onions, curd-cakes with fancy
edges, and pigus,(1) the famous dish of the
steppes, which made thy tongue turn white, gave thee
indigestion, and stood like a stake through thee for
four-and-twenty hours. On the other hand, he dries up the
roasts, as of old, to such a point, that you might bang them
against the plate--they are regular cardboard. But farewell!
(1) A sour soup, with
cucumbers.
VILLAGE OF
M....OE, June 12,
1850.
I HAVE a rather important bit of
news to communicate to thee, my dear friend.--Listen!
Yesterday, before dinner, I took a fancy for a stroll,--only
not in the park; I walked along the road leading to town. It
is very pleasant to walk on a long, straight road, without
any object, and with long strides. One seems to be engaged
in business, hastening somewhere or other.--I look: a calash
is driving to meet me. "Is n't it coming to my house?"
I thought with secret alarm
But, no; in the calash sits a gentleman with
a moustache, a stranger to me. I recover my equanimity. But
suddenly this gentleman, on coming alongside of me, orders
his coachman to stop the horses, courteously lifts his cap,
and with still "You do not recognise me?"--he
enunciates, alighting in the meantime, from the calash.
"I do not in the least, sir."
"But I recognised you instantly."
One word follows another; it turns out that
he is Priímkoff,--dost thou remember? Our old comrade
in the university. "What important bit of news is
this?" thou art thinking at this moment, my dear Semyón
Nikoláitch.--"Priímkoff, so far as I
recollect, was a rather frivolous fellow, although neither
malicious nor stupid."--All that is so, my dear friend;
but listen to the continuation of my tale.
"I was greatly delighted," says he,
"when I heard that you had come to your village, to our
neighbourhood. But I was not the only one who rejoiced."
"Allow me to inquire,"--I
inquired:--"who else was so amiable...."
"My wife."
"Your wife?"
"Yes, my wife; she is an old acquaintance of
yours."
"Permit me to inquire your wife's name?"
"Her name is Vyéra Nikoláevna;
she was born Éltzoff. . . ."
"Vyéra Nikoláevna!"--I
exclaimed involuntarily. . . .
So this is that same important piece of news,
of which I spoke to thee at the beginning of my letter.
But perhaps thou wilt not discern anything
important about it.....I must narrate to thee somewhat of my
past........of my long-past life.
When we, thou and I, came out of the
university, I was twenty-two years of age. Thou didst enter
the government service; I, as thou art aware, decided to
betake myself to Berlin. But there was nothing to do in
Berlin before October. I wanted to spend the summer in
Russia, in the country, to have my fill of lounging for the
last time; and then to set to work in sober earnest. As to
how far this last project was executed, I will not dilate at
present.... "But where shall I spend the summer?" I
asked myself. I did not wish to go to my own country-place: my
father had recently died, I had no near relatives, I dreaded
solitude, tedium.... And therefore, I joyfully accepted the
suggestion of one of my relatives, my great-uncle, that I
should visit him on his estate, in the T*** Government. He
was a wealthy man, kind-hearted and simple, lived in fine
style, and had a manor worthy of a nobleman. I established
myself in his house. My uncle had a large family: two sons
and five daughters. In addition to these, there dwelt in his
house a throng of people. Guests were incessantly
arriving, She was then sixteen. She lived with her
mother on a tiny estate, about five versts from my uncle's.
Her father--a remarkable man, they say--had speedily
attained to the rank of colonel, and would have risen still
higher, but perished while yet a young man, accidentally
shot in hunting by a comrade. Vyéra Nikoláevna
was a child when he died. Her mother, also, was a remarkable
woman: she spoke several languages, she knew a great deal.
She was seven or eight years older than her husband, whom
she had married for love; he had secretly carried her off
from her father's house. She barely survived his loss, and
until her own death (according to Priímkoff's
statement, she died soon after her daughter's marriage) she
wore black garments only. I vividly recall her face:
expressive, dark, with thick hair sprinkled with grey, large
stern eyes which seemed extinguished, and a straight,
delicate nose. Her father--his surname was
Ladánoff--had lived for fifteen years in Italy.
Vyéra Nikoláevna's mother had ben born the
daughter of a plain peasant-woman of Albano, who had been
killed on the day after the birth of her child, by a man of
Transtevere, her betrothed, from whom Ladánoff had
stolen her.... This story had made a great noise in its day.
On his return to Russia, Ladánoff not only did not
step out of his house, but even out of his study, busied
himself with chemistry, anatomy, the cabalistic art; tried
to lengthen the life of mankind, and imagined that he could
enter into relations with spirits, and call up the dead....
The neighbours looked on him as a wizard. He was extremely
fond of his daughter, taught her everything himself; but did
not forgive her for her elopement with Éltzoff, would
not admit her to his presence, either her or her husband,
foretold a sorrowful life for both of them, and died alone.
On being left a widow, Madame Éltzoff consecrated her
leisure to the education of her daughter, and received
almost no one. When I made the acquaintance of Vyéra
Nikoláevna, Vyéra Nikoláevna did not
resemble the ordinary young Russian gentlewoman; a sort of
special stamp lay upon her. What instantly impressed me in
her was the wonderful repose of all her movements and
remarks. Apparently, she did not worry about anything, did
not get excited, answered simply and sensibly, and listened
attentively. The expression of her face was sincere and
upright, as that of a child, but somewhat cold and
monotonous, although not pensive. She was rarely merry, and
then not like other people: the clarity of an innocent soul,
more delightful than merriment, glowed in all her being. She
was short of stature, very well made, rather thin; she had
regular and tender features, a very handsome, smooth brow,
golden-chestnut hair, a straight nose, like her mother, and
quite full lips; her grey eyes, with a tinge of black,
looked out somewhat too directly from beneath her thick,
upward-curling lashes. Her hands were small, but not very
pretty; people who possess talent do not have such hands
.... and, as a matter of fact, Vyéra
Nikoláevna had no particular talents. Her voice was
as ringing as that of a seven-year-old girl. At my uncle's
ball I was introduced to her mother, and, a few days later,
I drove to see them for the first time.
Madame Éltzoff was a very strange
woman, with a great deal of character, persistent and
concentrated. She exerted a strong influence on me: I both
respected and feared her. With her everything was done on a
system; and she had reared her daughter on a system, but did
not restrain her of her liberty. Her daughter loved her and
believed in her blindly. It sufficed for Madame
Éltzoff to give her a book, and to say: "Here, don't
read this page,"--and she would, probably, skip the
preceding page, but would not even glance at the forbidden
one. But Madame Éltzoff had also her idées
fixes, her hobbies. For example, she feared everything
which might act on the imagination, as she did fire; and
therefore her daughter, up to the age of seventeen, had not
read a single poem, while in geography, history, and even
natural history, she frequently nonplussed me, a university
graduate, and not one who had stood low in his class either,
as thou wilt, perhaps, remember. I once undertook to argue
with Madame Éltzoff about her hobby, although it was
difficult to draw her into conversation: she was extremely
taciturn. She merely shook her head.
"You say,"--she remarked at
last,--"that it
is both useful and agreeable to read
poetical productions.... I think that one should, as early
as possible, make a choice in life either of the
useful or of the agreeable, and so make up one's
mind once for all. I, also, once upon a time, tried to
combine the two things.... It is impossible and leads to
destruction or to insipidity."
Yes, a wonderful being was that woman, an
honourable, proud being, not devoid of fanaticism and
superstition of a certain sort. "I fear life,"--she
said to me one day.--And, in fact, she did fear it,--she feared
those secret forces upon which life is erected, and which
rarely but suddenly make their way to the surface. Woe to
the person over whose head they break! These forces had made
themselves felt by Madame Éltzoff in a terrible
manner: remember the death of her mother, her husband, her
father.... It was enough to terrify any one. I never saw her
smile. She seemed to have locked herself up, and flung the
key into the water. She must have gone through a great deal
of sorrow in her day, and she never shared it with any one
whomsoever. She had trained herself not to give way to her
feelings to such a degree, that she was even ashamed to
display her passionate love for her daughter; she never once
kissed her in my presence, never called her by a pet name,
but always "Vyéra." I remember one remark of
hers. I happened to say to her that all we people of the present day
were half-broken.... "There 's no use in breaking one's self
so,"--she said:--"one must subdue one's self
thoroughly,--or not touch one's self...."
Very few persons called at Madame
Éltzoff's; but I visited her frequently. I was
secretly conscious that she felt kindly toward me; and I
liked Vyéra Nikoláevna very much. She and I
chatted and strolled together.... Her mother did not
interfere with us; the daughter herself did not like to be
apart from her mother, and I, on my side, did not feel any
need of solitary conversations.... Vyéra
Nikoláevna had a strange habit of thinking aloud; at
night she talked loudly and intelligibly in her sleep of
what had impressed her during the day.--One day, after
scanning me attentively, and, according to her wont, softly
propping her chin on her hand, she said: "It strikes me that
B*** is a good man; but one cannot rely on him." Our
relations were of the most friendly and even character; only
one day it seemed to me that I noticed far away, somewhere
in the depths of her bright eyes, a strange something, a
sort of softness and tenderness.... But perhaps I was
mistaken.
In the meanwhile, time passed on, and the day
came when I was obliged to make preparations for departure.
But still I tarried. As I recall it, I persisted in thinking
that I should not soon see again that charming girl, to whom
I had grown so attached--and I should feel uncomfortable....
Berlin began to lose its power of attraction. I did not dare
to admit to myself what had taken place in me,--and I did
not understand what it was that had taken place in me,--it
was as though a mist were roving about in my soul. At last,
one morning, everything suddenly became clear to me. "What
's the use of seeking further?"--I thought. "Why should
I strive onward? For the truth will not surrender itself into
my hands, all the same. Would it not be better to remain
here? Ought not I to marry?" and, just imagine, this thought
of marriage did not alarm me in the least then. On the
contrary, I was delighted at it. More than that; that very
same day, I avowed my intentions, only not to Vyéra,
but to Madame Éltzoff herself. The old lady looked at
me.
"No,"--said she:--"my dear fellow,
go to Berlin, and break yourself a little more. You are good; but
you are not the sort of husband whom Vyéra needs."
I cast down my eyes, flushed scarlet,
and--what will probably amaze thee still more--I inwardly agreed
with Madame Éltzoff on the spot. A week later I took
my departure, and have never seen either her or Vyéra
since that time.
I have described to thee my adventure in
brief, because I know that thou dost not like anything "
long-drawn-out." On arriving in Berlin, I very promptly
forgot Vyéra Nikoláevna.... But, I must
confess, that the unexpected news of her has agitated me. I
have been impressed by the thought that she is so near, that
she is my neighbour, that I shall see her in a few days. The
past has suddenly started up before me, as though it had
sprung out of the earth, and were fairly swooping down on
me. Priímkoff informed me that he had called upon me
with the express purpose of renewing our ancient
acquaintance, and that he hoped to see me at his house very
shortly. He informed me that he had served in the cavalry,
had retired with the rank of lieutenant, purchased an estate
eight versts distant from mine, and was intending to occupy
himself with farming, that he had had three children, but
two of them had died, and only a five-year-old daughter was
left.
"And does your wife remember me?"--I
asked.
"Yes, she does,"--he replied with a
slight hesitation.--"Of course, she was then a child, so to speak;
but her mother always praised you highly, and you know how
she prizes every word of the deceased."
Madame :Éltzoff's words, that I was
not a suitable husband for Vyéra, recurred to my
memory.... "So thou wert suitable,"--I thought, darting
a sidelong glance at Priímkoff. He spent several hours
at my house. He is a very good, nice fellow, he talks very
modestly, has a very good-natured gaze; one cannot help
liking him .... but his intellectual faculties have not
developed since the period of our acquaintance with him. I
shall go to see him without fail, to-morrow, perhaps. I
shall find it extremely interesting to see how Vyéra
Nikoláevna has turned out.
Thou art, probably, laughing at me now, thou
rascal, as thou sittest at thy director's table; but
nevertheless, I shall write to thee what impression she
makes on me. Farewell! Until the next letter.
VILLAGE OF
M....OE, June 16,
1850.
WELL, my dear fellow, I have been at
her house, I have seen her. First of all, I must communicate
to thee a remarkable circumstance: believe me or not, as
thou wilt, but she has hardly changed at all, either in face
or in figure. When she came out to greet me, I almost
exclaimed aloud: a young girl of seventeen, and that 's all
there is to be said! Only, her eyes are not like those of a
little girl; however, even in her youth she did not have
childish eyes, they were too bright. But there is the same
composure, the same serenity, the same voice, not a single
wrinkle on her brow, just as though she had been lying
somewhere in the snow all these years. And now she is
twenty-eight years old, and has had three children. . . 'T
is incomprehensible! Pray, do not think that I am
exaggerating out of prejudice; on the contrary, this
immutability in her does not please me.
A woman of eight-and-twenty, a wife and a mother, ought not
to look like a young girl; for she has not lived in vain.
She greeted me very cordially; but my arrival simply
enraptured Priímkoff; that good fellow looks as
though he would like to get attached to some one. Their
house is very comfortable and clean. Vyéra
Nikoláevna was dressed like a young girl, also; all
in white, with a sky-blue sash, and a slender gold chain on
her neck. Her little daughter is very charming, and does not
resemble her in the least; she reminds one of her
grandmother. In the drawing-room, over the divan, hangs a
portrait of that strange woman, a striking likeness. It
caught my eye the moment I entered. She seemed to be staring
sternly and attentively at me. We sat down, recalled old
times, and gradually got into conversation. I kept
involuntarily glancing at the gloomy portrait of Madame
Éltzoff. Vyéra Nikoláevna was sitting
directly under it; it is her favourite place. Fancy my
amazement! To this day, Vyéra Nikoláevna has
not read a single romance, a single poem--in short, as she
expresses it, a single work of fiction! This incredible
indifference to the loftiest joys of the mind enraged me. In
a sensible woman, and one who, so far as I can judge,
possesses delicate feelings, this is simply unpardonable.
"Why,"--I said:--"have you made it
a rule never to read such books?"
"I have never happened to do it,"--she
replied.--"I have not had the time."
"Not had the time! I am astonished! You might
at least have inspired your wife with a wish to do so,"--I
went on, addressing Priímkoff.
"It would have given me great pleasure
...." Priímkoff began, but Vyéra Nikoláevna
interrupted him.
"Don't pretend; thou art no great lover of
poetry thyself."
"Of poetry,"--he began,--"I really
am not very fond; but romances, for example...."
"But what do you do, how do you occupy
yourselves evenings?"--I inquired.--"Do you play
cards?"
"Sometimes we do,"--she
replied:--"but is n't
there plenty to occupy us? We read, also; there are good
books besides poetry."
"Why do you attack poetry so?"
"I don't attack it; I have been accustomed
from my childhood not to read works of fiction; my mother
thought that was proper, and the longer I live, the more
convinced do I become that everything which my mother did,
everything she said, was the truth, the sacred truth."
"Well, as you like; but I cannot agree with
you. I am convinced that you do wrong in depriving yourself
of the purest, the most lawful enjoyment. Surely, you do not
reject music, painting; then why should you reject poetry?"
"I do not reject it. Up to the present time I
have not made acquaintance with it--that is all."
"Then I shall take the matter in hand!
Surely, your mother did not forbid you to acquaint yourself
with the productions of elegant literature during your
entire life?"
"No; when I married, my mother removed all
restrictions from me; it has never entered my head to read
.... what was it you called it? . . . well, in short, to
read romances."
I listened with surprise to Vyéra
Nikoláevna. I had not expected this.
She gazed at me with her tranquil look. That
is the way birds gaze, when they are not afraid.
"I will bring you a book!"--I exclaimed.
(The thought of "Faust," which I had recently read, flashed
through my mind.)
Vyéra Nikoláevna heaved a soft sigh.
"It .... it is not Georges Sand?"--she
inquired, not without timidity.
"Ah! so you have heard of her? Well, and what
if it were she, where 's the harm? . . . No; I shall bring
you another author. You have not forgotten your German, I
suppose?"
"No, I have not forgotten it."
"She speaks it like a
German,"--interposed Priímkoff.
"Well, that 's fine! I shall bring you . . .
but there now, you shall see what a marvellous thing I shall
bring you."
"Well, very good, I shall see. And now let us
go into the garden, for Natásha will not be able to sit
quietly otherwise."
She put on a round straw hat, a child's hat,
exactly like the one which her daughter donned, only a
little larger, and we betook ourselves to the garden. I
walked by her side. In the fresh air, in the shadow of the
lofty lindens, her face seemed to me more charming than
ever, especially when she turned slightly and threw back her
head in order to look up at me from under the brim of her
hat. Had it not been for Priímkoff, had it not been
for the little girl who was skipping on in front of us, I
really might have thought that I was not thirty-five years
of age, but three-and "Everybody tells me that I have changed very
little in outward appearance,"--she replied:--"moreover, I
have remained the same inwardly also."
We approached a small Chinese house.
"There, we did not have such a little house
at Ósinovko,"--she said:--"but you must not mind
its being so rickety and faded; it is very nice and cool
inside."
We entered the little house. I glanced about
me.
"Do you know what, Vyéra
Nikoláevna,"--I said:--"order a table and a few
chairs to be brought hither before I come. It really is
extraordinarily nice here. I will read aloud to you here....
Goethe's 'Faust' .... that is the thing I mean to read to
you."
"Yes; there are no flies here,"--she
remarked ingenuously;--"but when shall you come?"
"Day after to-morrow."
"Very well,"--she said:--"I will
give orders."
Natásha, who had entered the house in
company with us, suddenly uttered a scream, and sprang back, all
pale.
"What is the matter?"--asked
Vyéra Nikoláevna.
"Akh, mamma,"--said the little girl,
pointing at one corner,--"look, what a dreadful spider!
. . . ."
Vyéra Nikoláevna glanced at the
corner; a huge, mottled spider was crawling quietly along
the wall.
"What is there to be afraid of?"--she
said:--"it does not bite; see here."
And before I could stop her, she took the
hideous insect in her hand, let it run about on her palm,
and flung it aside.
"Well, you are a brave woman!"--I
exclaimed.
"Where is the bravery in that? That is not
one of the poisonous spiders."
"Evidently, as of old, you are strong in
natural history. I would n't have taken it in my hand."
"There 's no cause to be afraid of
it,"--repeated Vyéra Nikoláevna.
Natásha gazed silently at us and smiled.
"How much like your mother she is!"--I
remarked.
"Yes,"--replied Vyéra
Nikoláevna, with a smile of satisfaction;--"that
delights me greatly. God grant that she may resemble her not
in face alone!"
We were summoned to dinner, and after dinner
I took my departure. N.B. The dinner was very good
and savoury.--I make this remark in parenthesis, for thy
benefit, thou sponger! To-morrow I shall carry "Faust"
to them. I 'm afraid that old Goethe and I shall suffer defeat.
I will describe everything to thee in detail.
Come now, what thinkest thou about all "these
events"? Probably, that she has made a powerful impression
on me, that I am ready to fall in love, and so forth?
Nonsense, my dear fellow! It is high time for me to exercise
moderation. I have played the fool long enough;
finis! One cannot begin life over again at my age.
Moreover, even in former days, I never liked women of that
sort.... But what women I did like!!
In any case, I am very glad of these
neighbours, I am glad of the possibility of meeting a
sensible, simple, limpid being; but what happens further
thou shalt know in due time.
VILLAGE OF
M....OE, June 20,
1850.
THE reading took place yesterday, my dear
friend, and as to the precise manner of it, details follow.
First of all, I make haste to say, it was an unexpected
success .... that is, "success" is not the word for
it.... Come, listen. I arrived for dinner. There were six of us at
table: she, Priímkoff, her little daughter, the
governess (an insignificant little white figure), I, and
some old German or other, in a short, light-brown
frock-coat, neat, well-shaven, experienced, with the most
peaceable and honest of faces, a toothless smile, and an
odour of chicory coffee .... all old Germans smell like
that. He was introduced to me; he was a certain Schimmel, a
teacher of the German language in the family of Prince X***,
a neighbour of Priímkoff. It appears that he is a
favourite of Vyéra Nikoláevna's, and she had
invited him to be present at the reading. We dined late and
did not leave the table for a long time; then we went for a
stroll. The weather was magnificent. It had rained in the
morning, and the wind had been blowing; but toward evening
everything had quieted down. She and I emerged into an open
glade. Directly above this glade, a large, rosy cloud hung
high and light; grey streaks, like smoke, stretched across
it; on its extreme edge twinkled a tiny star, now appearing,
now disappearing, while a little further off the white
sickle of the moon was visible against the faintly crimsoned
azure. I pointed out the cloud to Vyéra
Nikoláevna.
"Yes,"--she said:--"it is very
beautiful; but look yonder."--I looked. A huge, dark-blue
storm-cloud was ascending like smoke, and concealing the setting
sun; in aspect, it presented the likeness of a mountain spouting
fire; its crest was spread athwart the sky in a broad sheaf;
an ominous crimson glow surrounded it with a brilliant
border, and in one spot, at the very centre of it, forced
its way through the heavy mass, as though tearing itself
free from a red-hot crater....
"There is going to be a
thunder But I am getting away from the main
point.--In my last letter I forgot to tell thee that on my
return home from the Priímkoffs', I repented of having
named "Faust" in particular; Schiller would have been
much more suitable for a first reading, if it must be a German. I
was particularly alarmed by the first scene, before the
acquaintance with Gretchen; I was uneasy on the score of
Mephistopheles also. But I was under the influence of
"Faust," and could not have read anything else with
good will. It was already perfectly dark when we betook ourselves
to the little Chinese house; it had been put in order the
day before. Directly opposite the door, in front of a small
divan, stood a round table, covered with a cloth; chairs and
arm-chairs were set round about; on the table burned a lamp.
I seated myself on the divan, and got my book. Vyéra
Nikoláevna placed herself in an armchair at some
distance, not far from the door. Beyond the door, in the
darkness, a green branch of acacia, illuminated by the lamp,
displayed itself, swaying gently; now and then a current of
night air diffused itself through the room. Priímkoff
sat down near me, at the table, the German by his side. The
governess had remained in the house with Natásha. I made a
little introductory speech; I alluded to the ancient legend
of Dr. Faustus, to the significance of Mephistopheles, to
Goethe himself, and begged that they would stop me if
anything should seem to them unintelligible. Then I cleared
my throat.... Priímkoff asked me whether I did not
need some sugar and water, and, so far as I was able to
observe, was greatly pleased with himself for having put
that question to me. I declined. Profound silence reigned. I
began to read, without raising my eyes; I felt awkward, my
heart beat violently and my voice trembled. The first
exclamation of sympathy burst from the German, and he alone,
during the course of the reading, broke the silence....
"Wonderful! Sublime!"--he kept repeating, now and then
adding: "Here it is deep." Priímkoff was bored,
as I could plainly see; he understood German imperfectly, and
confessed that he was not fond of poetry! .... It was his
own fault.--At table, I had wanted to hint that the reading
could proceed without him, but had been ashamed to do so.
Vyéra Nikoláevna did not stir; a couple of
times I shot a stealthy glance at her; her eyes were fixed
straight and attentively on me; her face seemed to me to be
pale. After Faust's first meeting with Gretchen, she
separated herself from the back of her chair, clasped her
hands, and remained motionless in that attitude until the
end. I felt conscious that Priímkoff found it
disgusting, and at first this chilled me; but gradually I
forgot all about him, warmed up, and read with fervour, with
enthusiasm.... I was reading for Vyéra
Nikoláevna alone; an inward voice told me that
"Faust" was taking effect on her. When I had finished
(I skipped the intermezzo; that bit, by its style, belongs to
the second part; and I also omitted portions from the "Night
on the Brocken ") .... when I had finished, when the last
"Heinrich!" had rung out,--the German ejaculated with
emotion: "Heavens! how beautiful!" Priímkoff
sprang to his feet as though delighted (poor fellow!), heaved a
sigh, and began to thank me for the pleasure I had given
them.... But I did not answer him; I glanced at Vyéra
Nikoláevna.... I wanted to hear what she would say.
She rose, walked to the door with wavering steps, stood
awhile on the threshold, and then quietly went out into the
garden. I rushed after her. She had already succeeded in
getting several paces away; her white gown was barely
visible in the dense shadow.
"Well?" I cried;--"did n't you like
it?"
She halted.
"Can you let me have that book?"--her
voice rang out.
"I will make you a present of it,
Vyéra Nikoláevna, if you care to have it."
"Thank you!"--she replied, and vanished.
Priímkoff and the German approached
me.
"How wonderfully warm it is!"--remarked
Priímkoff;--"even sultry. But where has my wife
gone?"
"To the house, I believe,"--I replied.
"I think it will soon be
supper-time,"--he
responded.--"You read capitally, capitally,"--he added,
after a brief pause.
"Vyéra Nikoláevna seemed to be
pleased with 'Faust,'" I remarked.
"Without doubt!"--exclaimed
Priímkoff.
"Oh, of course!"--chimed in Schimmel.
We entered the house.
"Where is the
mistress?"--Priímkoff
asked of a maid whom we encountered.
"She has been pleased to go to her
bedroom."
Priímkoff directed his steps to the
bedroom.
I went out on the terrace with Schimmel. The
old man raised his eyes to the sky.
"How many stars there are!"--he said
slowly, as he took a pinch of snuff;--"and all of them are
worlds,"--he added, taking another pinch.
I did not consider it necessary to answer
him, and only gazed upward in silence. A secret perplexity
was weighing on my soul.... The stars seemed to me to be
gazing seriously at us. Five minutes later, Priímkoff
made his appearance and summoned us to the dining-room.
Vyéra Nikoláevna soon came also. We sat down.
"Just look at Vyérotchka,"--said
Priímkoff to me.
I glanced at her.
"Well? Don't you notice anything?"
I really did note a change in her face, but I
know not why I answered:
"No, nothing."
"Her eyes are red,"--went on
Priímkoff.
I held my peace.
"Just fancy, I went to her up-stairs, and
found her; she was crying. It is a long time since that has
happened with her. I can tell you the last time she cried:
it was when our Sasha died. So that 's what you have done
with your 'Faust'!" he added with a smile.
"You must see now, Vyéra
Nikoláevna,"--I began,--"that I was right when
...."
"I had not expected that,"--she
interrupted me;--"but God knows whether you are right. Perhaps the
reason my mother prohibited my reading such books was
because she knew ...."
Vyéra Nikoláevna stopped short.
"Because she knew?"--I
repeated.--"Tell me."
"What is the use? I am ashamed of myself as
it is; what was I crying about? However, you and I will
discuss this further. There were many things which I did not
quite understand."
"Then why did n't you stop me?"
"I understood all the words, and their sense,
but ... ."
She did not finish her phrase, and became
pensive. At that moment, the noise of the foliage, suddenly
stirred by the rising wind, swept through the garden.
Vyéra Nikoláevna started, and turned her face
toward the open window.
"I told you that there would be a
thunder-storm!"--cried Priímkoff.--"But what
makes thee tremble so, Vyérotchka?"
She glanced at him in silence. The lightning,
flashing faintly far away, was reflected on her impassive
face.
"All thanks to 'Faust,'"--went on
Priímkoff.
"After supper, we must go immediately to
bye-bye, .... must n't we, Herr Schimmel?"
"After moral pleasure physical repose is as
beneficial as it is useful,"--replied the good German,
drinking off a glass of vodka.
We parted immediately after supper. As I bade
Vyéra Nikoláevna good night, I shook hands
with her; her hand was cold. I reached the chamber assigned
to me, and stood for a long time at the window before
undressing and getting into bed.
Priímkoff's prediction was fulfilled;
a thunder-storm gathered and broke. I listened to the roar
of the wind, the clatter and beating of the rain, I saw how,
at every flash of lightning, the church, built close at
hand, near the lake, now suddenly was revealed in black
against a white ground, then as white against a black
ground, then again was swallowed up in the gloom.... But my
thoughts were far away. I was thinking of Vyéra
Nikoláevna: I was thinking of what she would say to
me when she should have read "Faust" herself; I was
thinking of her tears; I was recalling how she had listened....
The thunder-storm had long since passed
off,--the stars were beaming, everything had fallen silent
round about. Some bird with which I was not familiar was
singing in various tones, repeating the same phrase several
times in succession. Its resonant, solitary voice rang out
oddly amid the profound silence; and still I did not go to
bed....
On the following morning I entered the
drawing-room earlier than all the rest, and halted in front
of Madame Éltzoff's portrait.--"What didst thou make
by it?"--I thought, with a secret feeling of jeering
triumph,--"for here, seest thou, I have read to thy daughter
a forbidden book!" All at once, it seemed to me ....
probably thou hast noticed that eyes painted en face
always seem to be riveted straight on the spectator? . . .
But on this occasion, it really did seem to me as though the
old lady had turned them on me reproachfully.
I turned away, walked to the window, and
beheld Vyéra Nikoláevna. With a parasol on her
shoulder, and a thin white kerchief on her head, she was
strolling in the garden. I immediately went out and bade her
good morning....
"I have not slept all night,"--she said
to me;--"I have a headache; I have come out into the air to see
if it will not pass off."
"Can it have been caused by last night's
reading?"--I asked.
"Of course it was; I am not used to that.
There are things in that book of yours which I cannot get
rid of; it seems to me that they are fairly searing my
brain,"--she added, laying her hand on her brow.
"Very good indeed,"--said I:--"but
this is the bad thing about it: I 'm afraid this sleeplessness and
headache have destroyed your wish to read such things."
"Do you think so?"--she returned,
breaking off a spray of wild jasmine as she passed.--"God knows! It
seems to me that any one who has entered upon that road
cannot turn back."
She suddenly flung aside the spray.
"Let us go and sit in that arbour,"--she
went on,--"and until I speak to you of it myself, please do not
remind me .... of that book." (She seemed to be afraid to
pronounce the name "Faust.")
We entered the arbour and seated ourselves.
"I will not talk to you about 'Faust,'"
I began;--"but you must allow me to congratulate you, and to
tell you that I envy you."
"You envy me?"
"Yes; as I know you now, with your soul, how
much enjoyment you have in store! There are other great
poets besides Goethe: She maintained silence, and drew figures on
the sand with her parasol.
Oh, my friend, Semyón Nikoláitch! if
thou couldst but have seen how charming she was at that moment!
Pale almost to transparency, slightly bent forward, weary,
inwardly distraught,--and nevertheless serene as the sky! I
talked, talked a long time, then fell silent--and sat there
silently watching her....
She did not raise her eyes, and continued now
to sketch with her parasol, now to erase what she had drawn.
Suddenly the sound of brisk, childish footsteps resounded:
Natásha ran into the arbour. Vyéra
Nikoláevna straightened herself up, rose, and, to my amazement,
embraced her daughter with a sort of impulsive tenderness.
.... This was not her habit. Then Priímkoff made his
appearance. That grey-haired but punctual, fine fellow
Schimmel had gone away before daybreak, in order not to miss
his lesson. We went to drink tea.
But I am tired; it is time to bring this
letter to an end. It must seem silly, confused to thee. I
feel confused myself. I am out of sorts. I don't know what
ails me. There is constantly flitting before my vision a
tiny room with bare walls, a lamp, an open door, the scent
and freshness of night, and there, near the door, an
attentive young face, thin, white garments.... I understand
now why I wanted to marry her; evidently, I was not so
stupid before my trip to Berlin as I have hitherto thought.
Yes, Semyón Nikoláaitch, your friend is in a
strange frame of mind. All this will pass off, I know . . . but
what if it should not pass off--well, what then? I am satisfied
with myself, nevertheless; in the first place, I have spent a
wonderful evening; and in the second place, if I have
awakened that soul, who can blame me? Old Madame
Éltzoff is nailed to the wall and must hold her
peace. The old lady! .... I do not know all the particulars
of her life; but I do know that she eloped from her father's
house; evidently, she was not born of an Italian mother for
nothing. She wanted to insure her daughter. We shall see.
I fling aside my pen. Thou, jeering man,
please to think of me as thou wilt, but don't make fun of me
by letter. Thou and I are old friends, and must spare each
other. Farewell!
VILLAGE OF
M....OE, July 26,
1850.
I HAVE not written to thee for a
long time, my dear Semyón Nikoláitch; not for more
than a month, I think. There has been plenty to write about;
but I have been too lazy. To tell the truth, I have hardly
thought of thee during the whole of that time. Put I may
deduce from thy last letter to me that thou art making
assumptions about me which are unjust; that is to say, not
quite just. Thou thinkest that I am carried away by
Vyéra (somehow, I find it awkward to call her
Vyéra Nikoláevna); thou art mistaken. Of
course, I see her frequently; I like her extremely .... and
who would not like her? I should just like to see thee in my
place. She 's a wonderful creature! Instantaneous
penetration hand in hand with the inexperience of a baby;
clear, sound sense and innate feeling for beauty, a constant
striving for the truth, for the lofty, and a comprehension
of everything, even of the vicious, even of the
ridiculous--and, over all this, like the white wings of an
angel, gentle feminine charm. . . . But what 's the use of
talking! We have read a great deal, discussed a great deal,
she and I, in the course of this month. To read with her is
a delight such as I have not hitherto experienced. It is as
though one were opening fresh pages. She never goes into
raptures over anything; everything noisy is alien to her;
she quietly beams all over when anything pleases her, and
her face assumes such a noble, good .... precisely that,
good expression. From her earliest childhood Vyéra
has never known what it is to lie; she has become accustomed
to the truth, she is redolent of it, and therefore in poetry
the truth alone appears natural to her; she immediately
recognises it, without difficulty, as a familiar face .... a
great advantage and happiness! It is impossible not to hold
her mother in kindly memory for that. How many times have I
thought, as I looked at Vyéra: "Yes, Goethe is
right:--'a good man in his obscure aspirations always feels
where the true road lies.'"(2) One thing is
vexatious; her husband is always hanging around. (Please
don't indulge in your stupid laugh, don't sully our
friendship by even so much as a thought.) He is as capable
of understanding poetry as I am of playing the flute, and he
won't leave his wife; he wants to be enlightened also.
Sometimes she herself puts me out of patience: a queer sort
of mood will suddenly come over her; she will neither read
nor converse; she works at her embroidery-frame, and fusses
with Natásha, with the housekeeper, suddenly runs off to
the kitchen, or simply sits with folded hands and stares out of
the window, or sets to playing "fool"(3)
with the nurse.... I have observed that on such occasions I must
not worry her, but that it is best to wait until she herself
approaches me, and starts a conversation, or takes up a
book. She has a great deal of independence, and I am very
glad of that. Dost thou remember how, in the days of our
youth, some young girl or other would repeat to thee thy own
words, to the best of her ability, and thou wouldst go into
raptures over that echo and, probably, bow down before it,
until thou didst get an inkling of the real state of the
case? But this woman . . . no; she thinks for herself. She
will accept nothing on faith; one cannot frighten her by
authority; she will not dispute; but she will not give in.
She and I have argued over "Faust" more than once;
but--strange to say!--she never says anything about Gretchen
herself, but merely listens to what I say of her.
Mephistopheles alarms her, not as the devil, but as
"something which may exist in every man...." Those are
her very words. I undertook to explain to her that we called
that "something" reflex action; but she did not
understand the words "reflex action" in the German sense; she
knows only the French "réflexion," and has
become accustomed to consider it useful.
(2) "Faust," the Prologue to Part I.
(3) A Russian
card-game. Our relations are remarkable! From a certain
point of view I may say that I have great influence over
her, and am educating her, as it were; but without herself
being aware of the fact, she is transforming many things in
me for the better. For example, it is solely due to her that
I have recently discovered what an immense amount of the
conventional, the rhetorical there is in the finest, the
most famous poetical productions. That to which she remains
cold becomes at once suspicious in my eyes. Yes, I have
grown better, more serene. To be intimate with her, to meet
her, and remain the same man as before is an impossibility.
"What is to be the upshot of all this?"
thou wilt ask. Why, really, nothing, I think. I am passing my
time very agreeably until September, and then I shall go
away. Life will seem dark and tedious to me during the first
months.... But I shall get used to it. I know how dangerous
is any sort of a tie between a man and a young woman, how
imperceptibly one feeling is replaced by another.... I would
have managed to wrench myself away, had I not known that
both of us are perfectly calm. Truth to tell, one day
something strange happened with us. I know not how, and as a
result of what--I remember that we were reading
"Onyégin"(4)--and I kissed her hand. She
recoiled slightly, riveted a glance upon me (I have never beheld such
a glance in any one but her; it contains both pensiveness
and attention, and a sort of severity) .... suddenly
blushed, rose, and left the room. I did not succeed in being
alone with her again that day. She avoided me, and for four
mortal hours played with her husband, the nurse, and the
governess at "Trumps." The next morning she suggested
that we should go into the garden. We walked the whole length of
it, clear to the lake. Suddenly she whispered softly,
without turning toward me: "Please don't do that
again!"--and immediately began to narrate something to
me.... I was very much abashed.
(4) Púshkin's poem, "Evgény
Onyégin." I must confess that her image never leaves my
mind, and I probably have begun to write this letter to thee
more with the object of securing the possibility of thinking
and talking about her, than anything else. I hear the
neighing and trampling of horses: it is my calash being
brought round. I am going to their house. My coachman no
longer asks me whither he shall drive when I take my seat in
the equipage,--he drives straight to the Priímkoffs'.
Two versts distant from their village, at a sharp turn of
the road, their manor-house suddenly peers forth from behind
a birch-grove.... Every time my heart leaps with joy as soon
as the windows of her house gleam forth. Schimmel (that
harmless old man comes to them occasionally; they have seen
the family of Prince X*** only once, thank God!) . . . .
Schimmel says, not without cause, with the modest triumph
peculiar to him, as he points to the house where
Vyéra dwells: "That is the abode of peace!" The
angel of peace has taken up its abode in that house....
But come, enough of this,--or God knows what
thou wilt think,--until the next time.... What shall I write
the next time?--Good-bye!--By the way, she will never say
"good-bye," but always: "Well, good-bye."--I
like that
awfully.
P. S.--I don't remember whether I have told
thee that she knows I proposed for her hand.
VILLAGE OF
M....OE, August 10,
1850.
CONFESS that thou art expecting
either a despairing or a rapturous letter from me....
Nothing of the sort. My letter will be like all letters.
Nothing new has happened, and nothing can happen, I think.
The other day we were rowing in a boat on the lake. I will
describe that jaunt to thee. There were three of us: she,
Schimmel and I. I cannot understand what possesses her to
invite that old man so often. The X***s are put out with
him, they say, because he has begun to neglect his lessons.
But on this occasion he was amusing. Priímkoff did
not go with us: he had a headache. The weather was
magnificent, cheerful; there were huge white ragged-looking
storm-clouds all over the blue sky; everywhere there was a
gleam, a rustling in the trees, a plashing and rippling of
the water on the shores; on the waves darting golden
serpents of light, coolness and sunshine!--At first I and
the German rowed; then we raised the sail and dashed
headlong onward. The bow of the boat fairly dived through
the waves, and the wake behind the stern hissed and foamed.
She sat at the helm and steered; she had tied a kerchief over
her head: a hat would have blown off; her curls burst forth
from beneath it, and floated softly on the breeze. She held
the helm firmly with her sun-burned little hand, and smiled
at the splashes of water which flew in her face from time to
time. I curled myself up in the bottom of the boat, not far
from her feet, the German pulled out his pipe, lighted up
his coarse tobacco, and--just fancy!--began to sing in a
fairly agreeable bass voice. First he sang the old ballad:
"Freut' euch des Lebens," then an aria from
"The Magic
Flute," then a romance entitled "Love's
Alphabet"--"Das
A-B-C der Liebe." In this romance the whole alphabet is
recited, In the meantime, the wind had increased, the
waves had begun to run rather high, the boat careened over
somewhat; swallows were darting low around us. We put the
sail over and began to jibe. The wind suddenly veered about;
we had not succeeded in completing the manœuvre, when a
wave dashed over the side, and the boat took in a quantity
of water. Here, also, the German showed himself to be a fine
fellow; he snatched the sheet-rope from my hand, and jibed
in proper fashion, remarking, as he did so: "That 's the way
they do at Kuxhafen!"--"So macht man's in
Kuxhafen!"
Vyéra was probably frightened, for she
turned pale; but, according to her wont, she did not utter a
word, but gathered up her gown and placed her feet on the
thwart of the boat. Suddenly there flashed across my mind
Goethe's poem (I have been thoroughly infected by him for
some time past) .... dost thou remember it? "On the waves
twinkle thousands of quivering stars"; and I recited it
aloud. When I reached the line: "Mine eyes, why do ye
droop?" she raised her eyes a little (I was sitting lower
than she: her glance fell upon me from above) and gazed for
a long time into the far distance, narrowing her eyes to
protect them from the wind.... A light rain came up in an
instant, and pattered in bubbles on the water. I offered her
my overcoat; she threw it over her shoulders. We landed on
the shore,--not at the wharf,--and went to the house on
foot. I walked arm in arm with her. All the time I felt like
saying something to her; but I held my peace. But I remember
asking her why, when she was at home, she always sat under
the portrait of Madame Éltzoff, just like a birdling
under its mother's wing.--"Your comparison is very
accurate,"--she replied:--"I should never wish to
emerge from beneath her wing."--"Would n't you like to emerge
into freedom?"--I asked another question. She made no reply.
I do not know why I have told thee about this
expedition, Yes; just fancy! On the following day, as I
was strolling through the garden, past the arbour, I
suddenly heard an agreeable, ringing, feminine voice
singing, "Freut' euch des Lebens." . . . I
glanced into the arbour:--it was Vyéra.
"Bravo!"--I exclaimed;--"I was not
aware that you had such a fine voice!"--She was abashed, and stopped
singing. Seriously, she has an excellent, strong soprano
voice. But I don't believe she even suspected that she had a
good voice. How many untouched treasures are still concealed
in her! She does not know herself. But such a woman is a
rarity in our day, is she not?
August 12.
WE had a very strange conversation
yesterday. First we talked about visions. Just imagine; she
believes in them, and says that she has her reasons for so
doing. Priímkoff, who was sitting with us, dropped
his eyes and shook his head, as though in confirmation of
her words. I tried to interrogate her; but speedily
perceived that the conversation was disagreeable to her. We
began to talk about imagination, about the force of
imagination. I narrated how, in my youth, being in the habit
of dreaming a great deal about happiness (the customary
occupation of people who have not had, or will not have luck
in life), I had, among other things, dreamed of what bliss
it would be to pass a few weeks in Venice with the woman I
loved. I thought of this so often, especially at night, that
I gradually formed in my mind a complete picture, which I
could summon up before me at will: all I had to do was to
shut my eyes. This is what presented itself to me:--Night,
the moon, white and tender moonlight, fragrance .... the
fragrance of the orange- She listened to my nonsense, and said that
she also often indulged in reverie, but that her dreams were
of a different nature: she either imagined herself on the
plains of Africa, with some traveller or other, or hunting
for the traces of Franklin in the Arctic Ocean; she vividly
pictured to herself all the hardships which she must
undergo, all the difficulties with which she must contend.
"Thou hast read a quantity of
travels," "Perhaps so,"--she rejoined. " But
if one is to dream, what possesses one to dream of the impossible?"
"But why not?"--I interposed.--"How
is the poor impossible to blame?"
"I did not express myself
correctly," These words amazed me. That woman has a great
soul, believe me.... From Venice the conversation passed to
Italy, to the Italians. Priímkoff left the room, and
Vyéra and I were left alone.
"There is Italian blood in your veins
also,"--I remarked.
"Yes,"--she responded:--"I will
show you the portrait of my grandmother, if you wish."
"Pray do."
She went into her boudoir and brought thence
a rather large gold locket. On opening this locket, I beheld
a splendidly Yes, I repeat it: neither she herself nor any
one else in all the world knows what lies hidden within
her....
By the way! Madame Éltzoff, before her
daughter's marriage, related to her the story of her whole
life, the death of her mother, and so forth, probably with
the object of edification. That which had a particular
effect upon Vyéra, was what she heard about her
grandfather, about that mysterious Ladánoff. Is it
not from him that she inherits her faith in visions?
Strange! she herself is so pure and bright, yet she is
afraid of everything gloomy, subterranean, and believes in
it....
But enough. Why write all this? However,
since it is already written, I 'll just send it off
to thee.
VILLAGE OF
M....OE, August 22.
I TAKE up my pen ten days after the
date of my last letter.... Oh, my friend, I can no longer
dissimulate. . . . How painful it is to me! How I love her!
Thou canst imagine with what a bitter shudder I write this
fateful word. I am no boy, not even a stripling; I am no
longer at the age when it is almost impossible to deceive
another person, while it costs no effort at all to deceive
one's self. I know everything, and I see clearly. I know
that I am close on forty years of age, that she is the wife
of another, that she loves her husband, I know very well
that I have nothing to expect from the unfortunate sentiment
which has taken possession of me, save secret torments and
definitive waste of my vital forces,--I know all this, I
hope for nothing and I desire nothing. But I am no more at
my ease for all that.
A month ago I began to notice that my
attachment for her was becoming stronger and stronger. That
partly disconcerted me, partly delighted me.... But could I
have expected that all that would be repeated in me from
which, as in youth, there is no return? But what am I
saying! I never have loved thus, no, never! Manon Lescaut,
the Frétillons--those were my idols. It is easy to
shatter such idols; but now .... and only now have I learned
what it means to love a woman. I am ashamed even to speak of
it; but so it is. I am ashamed.... Love is egoism,
nevertheless; but at my age, egoism would be unpardonable:
one cannot live for himself at seven I cannot read over this letter; it has burst
from me like a groan. I can add nothing, narrate nothing....
Give me time: I shall come to myself. I shall regain control
of my soul, I shall talk with thee like a man, but now I
should like to lean my head on thy breast and ....
O Mephistopheles! Even thou wilt not help me!
I have intentionally lingered over, I have intentionally
irritated the ironical vein in myself; I have reminded
myself how ridiculous and hypocritical these complaints,
these effusions, will appear to me a year, half a year
hence.... No, Mephistopheles is powerless, and his teeth
have grown blunt.... Farewell.
VILLAGE OF
M....OE, September 8,
1850.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
SEMYÓN
NIK0LÁITCH:
Thou hast taken my last letter too much to
heart. Thou knowest how much inclined I have always been to
exaggerate my feelings; I do it quite involuntarily: a
feminine nature ! That will pass off, with years, it is
true; but I must admit, with a sigh, that up to the present
time, I have not corrected myself. And, therefore, reassure
thyself. I will not deny the impression which Vyéra
has made upon me; but, nevertheless, I will say: there was
nothing remarkable in all that. It is not in the least
necessary that thou shouldst come hither, as thou writest
that thou art intending to do. To gallop more than a
thousand miles, God knows for what--why, that would be
madness! But I am very grateful to thee for this new proof
of thy friendship, and, believe me, I shall never forget it.
Thy journey hither is ill-judged also because I myself
intend soon to set off for Petersburg. Seated on thy divan,
I will relate to thee many things; but now, really, I do not
feel like it: the first thing you know, I shall get to
chattering too much, and become entangled again. I will
write to thee again before my departure. So then, farewell
until we meet shortly. May health be thine, and
cheerfulness, and do not worry too much over the fate
of--thine sincerely,
VILLAGE OF
M....OE, March 10,
1853.
I HAVE answered thy letter for a
long time; I have been thinking of thee all these days. I
have felt that thou wert prompted not by idle curiosity, but
by genuine friendly sympathy; but still I have hesitated:
whether I ought to follow thy advice, whether I ought to
comply with thy wish. At last I have reached a decision; I
will tell thee all. Whether my confession will relieve me,
as thou assumest, I do not know; but it seems to me that I
should remain culpable even if . . . . alas! still more
culpable toward that unforgettable, charming spirit, if I
did not confide our sad secret to the only heart which I
still prize. Thou alone, possibly, on earth dost remember
Vyéra, and that thou shouldst judge of her
light-mindedly and falsely, is what I cannot permit. Then
know all! Alas! it can all be imparted in two words; that
which existed between us flashed for a moment, like the
lightning, and, like the lightning, carried death and
destruction with it....
Since her death, since I settled down in this
remote nook, which I shall never leave again to the end of
my days, more than two years have passed, and everything is
as clear in my memory, my wounds are still as fresh, my
grief is as bitter as ever....
I will not complain. Complaints, by
irritating, alleviate sorrow, but not mine. I will begin my
narration.
Dost thou remember my last letter--that
letter in which I undertook to dissipate thy fears and
dissuade thee from leaving Petersburg? Thou wert suspicious
of its constrained ease, thou hadst no faith that we should
soon see each other: thou wert right. On the eve of the day
when I wrote to thee, I had learned that I was beloved.
As I trace these words I discover how
difficult it will be for me to pursue my narration to the
end. The importunate thought of her death will torture me
with redoubled force, these memories will sear me.... But I
shall try to control myself, and I will either discard my
pen, or I will not utter a superfluous word.
This is how I learned that Vyéra loved
me. First of all, I must tell thee (and thou wilt believe
me), that up to that day I positively had not had a
suspicion. She had, it is true, begun to be pensive at
times, which had never been the case with her previously;
but I did not understand why this happened to her. At last,
one day, the seventh of September,--a memorable day for
me,--this is what occurred. Thou knowest how I loved her,
how I was suffering. I wandered like a ghost, I could find
no place of rest. I tried to remain at home, but could not
endure it, and went to her. I found her alone in her boudoir
Priímkoff was not at home: he had gone off hunting.
When I entered Vyéra's room, she looked intently at
me, and did not respond to my greeting. She was sitting by
the window; on her lap lay a book: it was my "Faust."
Her face expressed weariness. She requested me to read aloud the
scene between Faust and Gretchen, where she asks him whether
he believes in God. I took the book and began to read. With
her head leaning against the back of her chair, and her
hands clasped on her breast, she continued to gaze at me in
the same intent manner as before.
I do not know why my heart suddenly began to
beat violently.
"What have you done to me?"--she said in
a lingering voice.
"What?"--I ejaculated in confusion.
"Yes; what have you done to me?"--she
repeated.
"Do you mean to ask,"--I
began:--"why have I
persuaded you to read such books?"
She rose in silence, and left the room. I
stared after her.
On the threshold she halted and turned toward
me.
"I love you,"--said she:--"that is
what you
have done to me."
The blood flew to my head....
"I love you, I am in love with
you,"--repeated Vyéra.
She went away, and shut the door behind her.
I will not describe to thee what went on in me then. I
remember that I went out into the garden, made my way into
its thickets, and leaned against a tree. How long I stood
there I know not. It was as though I had swooned; the
feeling of bliss surged across my heart in a billow, from
time to time.... No, I will not talk about that.
Priímkoff's voice aroused me from my stupor; they had
sent to tell him that I had arrived. He had returned from
the chase, and had hunted me up. He was surprised at finding
me in the garden alone, without a hat, and he led me to the
house. "My wife is in the drawing-room,"--he
said:--"let us
go to her." Thou canst conjecture with what emotions I
crossed the threshold of the drawing-room. Vyéra was
sitting in one corner, at her embroidery- Priímkoff left the room. She suddenly
raised her head and asked me in quite a loud tone:
"What dost thou intend to do now?"
I was disconcerted, and hastily, in a dull
voice, I replied that I intended to fulfil the duty of an
honourable man--to go away, "because,"--I
added,--"I love
you, Vyéra Nikoláevna, as you have, probably,
long since perceived."
"I must have a talk with you,"--said
she:--"come to-morrow evening, after tea, to our little
house . . . you know, where you read 'Faust.'"
She said this so distinctly that even now I
cannot understand how Priímkoff, who entered the room
at that moment, failed to hear anything. Slowly, with
painful slowness did that day pass. Vyéra gazed about
her from time to time, with an expression as though she were
asking herself: "Was not she dreaming?" And, at the
same time, decision was written on her countenance. While I ....
I could not recover my composure. Vyéra loves me!
These words gyrated incessantly in my mind; but I did not
understand them,--I understood neither myself nor her. I did
not believe in such unexpected, such soul- After tea, when I had already begun to
meditate how I might slip unperceived out of the house, she
herself suddenly announced that she wished to take a stroll,
and proposed to me that I should accompany her. I dared not
begin the conversation, I could barely draw my breath, I
waited for her first word, I waited for an explanation; but
she maintained silence. In silence we reached the little
Chinese house, in silence we entered it, and there--to this
day I do not know, I cannot comprehend how it came
about--but we suddenly found ourselves in each other's arms.
Some invisible force dashed me to her, and her to me. By the
dying light of day, her face, with its curls tossed back, was
illuminated for a moment by a smile of self-forgetfulness
and tenderness, and our lips melted together in a kiss....
This kiss was the first and the last.
Vyéra suddenly tore herself from my
arms, and, with an expression of horror in her widely-opened
eyes, staggered back....
"Look round,"--she said to me in a
quivering voice:--"do you see nothing?"
I wheeled swiftly round.
"No, nothing. But do you see any one?"
"I don't now, but I did."
She was breathing deeply and slowly.
"Whom? What?"
"My mother,"--she said slowly, trembling
all over.
I also shivered, as though a chill had seized
me. I suddenly felt alarmed, like a criminal. And was not I
a criminal at that moment?
"Enough!"--I began.--"What ails
you? Tell me rather ...."
"No, for God's sake, no!"--she
interrupted, clutching her head.--" This is madness....
I shall go out of my mind.... This is not to be trifled with--this is
death.... Farewell...."
I stretched out my arms toward her.
"Stay one moment, for God's sake,"--I
cried in an involuntary transport. I did not know what to say, and
could hardly stand on my feet.--"For God's sake .... why,
this is cruel...."
She glanced at me.
"To-morrow, to-morrow evening,"--she
said:--"not to-day, I beg of you.... Go away to-day ....
Come to-morrow evening to the wicket-gate in the garden, near
the lake. I shall be there, I will come.... I swear to thee
that I will come,"--she added, with an effort, and her eyes
flashed.--"No matter who may seek to stop me, I swear it! I
will tell thee all, only let me go to-day."
And before I could utter a word, she
vanished.
Shaken to the very foundations, I remained
rooted to the spot. My head was reeling. A feeling of
anguish crept through the mad joy which filled my being. I
glanced about me. The chamber in which I was standing, with
its low vault and dark walls, seemed horrible to me.
I went out and betook myself with hasty steps
to the house. Vyéra was waiting for me on the
terrace; she went into the house as soon as I approached,
and immediately retired to her bedroom.
I went away.
How I spent that night and the following day
until the evening, I cannot describe. I remember only that I
lay prone, with my face hidden in my hands, recalling her
smile which had preceded the kiss, and whispering: "Here she
is, at last. . . ."
I recalled also Madame Éltzoff's
words, which Vyéra had repeated to me. She had said
to her one day: "Thou art like ice: until thou salt melt,
thou art strong as a rock, but when thou meltest, there will
not remain a trace of thee."
And here is another thing which recurred to
my memory: Vyéra and I had, somehow, got into a
discussion as to what are knowledge and talent.
"I know only one thing,"--she
said:--"how to hold my peace until the last minute."
I had understood nothing at the time.
"But what is the meaning of her
fright?"--I asked myself.... "Did she really
see Madame Éltzoff? Imagination!"--I thought,
and again surrendered myself to the emotions of anticipation.
That same day I wrote to thee--with what
thoughts I shudder to recall--that artful letter.
In the evening, before the sun had set, I was
standing at a distance of fifty paces from the garden gate,
in a tall, thick mass of vines, on the shore of the lake. I
had come from home on foot. I confess it, to my shame:
terror, the most pusillanimous terror filled my breast, I
kept trembling incessantly .... but I felt no remorse.
Concealing myself among the branches, I stared fixedly at
the gate. It did not open. The sun set, darkness descended:
the stars had already come out, and the sky had grown black.
No one appeared. Fever seized upon me. Night came. I could
endure it no longer, and cautiously emerging from the vines,
I crept up to the gate. Everything was quiet in the garden.
I called Vyéra in a whisper, I called a second time,
a third.... No voice responded. Another half hour, an hour
elapsed; it had grown perfectly dark. Anticipation had
exhausted me; I pulled the gate toward me, opened it at one
movement and directed my way on tiptoe, like a thief, toward
the house. I halted in the shadow of the lindens.
Almost all the windows in the house were lighted: people
were moving to and fro in the rooms. This astonished me: my
watch, so far as I could make out by the dim light of the
stars, indicated half-past eleven. Suddenly a rumbling
resounded on the other side of the house: an equipage had
driven into the courtyard.
"Evidently, there are visitors,"--I
thought.
Abandoning all hope of seeing Vyéra, I made my way
out of the garden, and strode homeward with hasty steps. It
was a dark September night, warm but starless. A feeling not
so much of vexation as of grief, which was on the point of
taking possession of me, was dissipated to a certain degree,
and I arrived at my own house somewhat fatigued from my
brisk walk, but soothed by the tranquillity of the night,
happy and almost merry. I entered my bedroom, dismissed
Timofyéi, threw myself on the bed without undressing,
and plunged into reverie.
At first my musings were cheerful; but I
speedily noticed a strange change in myself. I began to feel
a sort of mysterious, gnawing grief, a sort of profound,
inward uneasiness. I could not understand whence it
proceeded; but I became alarmed, and oppressed, as though an
impending misfortune were menacing me, as though some one
dear to me were suffering at that moment, and were appealing
to me for help. On the table a wax taper was burning with a
small, motionless flame, the pendulum of the clock was
ticking heavily and regularly. I leaned my head on my hand,
and sat to staring into the empty, semi-darkness of my
solitary chamber. I thought of Vyéra, and my soul
ached within me: everything in which I had delighted
appeared to me in its proper light, as a calamity, as ruin
from which there was no escape. The feeling of anguish kept
augmenting within me; I could no longer lie down; again it
suddenly seemed to me as though some one were calling me
with an appealing voice. . ... I raised my head and
shuddered. I was not mistaken: a wailing shriek swept from
afar, and clung, faintly quivering, to the window-panes. I
was terrified: I sprang from the bed, and threw open the
window. A plainly-audible groan burst into the room, and
seemed to hover over me. It seemed as though some one's
throat were being cut at a distance, and the unhappy person
were entreating, in vain, for mercy. I did not stop, at the
time, to consider whether it might not be an owl hooting in
the grove, or whether some other creature had emitted that
groan, but as Mazeppa answered Kotchubéy, I replied
with a shriek to that sound of ill-omen.
"Vyéra, Vyéra!"--I
cried:--"is it thou who art calling
me?"--Timofyéi, sleepy and dumbfounded,
appeared before me.
I came to my senses, drank a glass of water,
and went into another room; but sleep did not visit me. My
heart beat painfully, although not frequently. I could no
longer give myself up to dreams, to happiness. I no longer
dared to believe in it.
On the following day, before dinner, I set
off to see Priímkoff. He greeted me with a careworn
face.
"My wife is ill,"--he began:--"she
is in bed. I have sent for the doctor."
"What is the matter with her?"
"I don't understand. Yesterday evening she
started to go into the garden, but suddenly came back,
beside herself, thoroughly frightened. Her maid ran for me.
I came, and asked my wife, 'What ails thee?' She made no
reply, and instantly took to her bed; during the night,
delirium set in. God knows what she said in her delirium;
she mentioned you. The maid told me an astonishing thing: it
seems that Vyérotchka saw her dead mother in the garden;
her mother seemed to be coming toward her with open arms."
Thou canst imagine my sensations at these
words!
"Of course, it is nonsense," "And is Vyéra Nikoláevna very
ill, pray tell me?"
"Yes, very; she was very bad during the
night; now she is unconscious."
"But what did the doctor say?"
"He said that the malady had not yet declared
itself. . . ."
March 12.
I CANNOT continue as I have begun,
my dear friend: it costs me too much effort and irritates my
wounds too greatly. The malady declared itself, to use the
doctor's words, and Vyéra died of it. She did not
survive a fortnight after that fatal day of our momentary
tryst. I saw her once more before her end. I possess no more
cruel memory. I had already learned from the doctor that
there was no hope. Late at night, when every one in the
house was in bed, I crept to the door of her chamber and
looked at her. Vyéra was lying in bed, with closed
eyes, emaciated, tiny, with the glow of fever on her cheeks.
I stared at her as though I had been petrified. Suddenly she
opened her eyes, fixed them on me, took a closer look, and
stretching out her emaciated hand--
she articulated in a voice so terrible, that I fled at
full speed. She raved of "Faust" almost continuously
during her illness, and of her mother, whom she called now Martha,
now Gretchen's mother.
(5) "Was will er an dem heiligen Ort,
Der da.... der dort...."
"Faust," Part I, Last Scene.
Vyéra died. I was at her funeral.
Since that day I have abandoned everything, and have settled
down here forever.
Reflect now on what I have told thee; think
of her, of that being who perished so early. How this came
about, how that incomprehensible interposition of the dead
in the affairs of the living is to be explained, I know not,
and I shall never know; but thou must agree with me that it
is no fit of capricious hypochondria, as thou expressest it,
which has made me withdraw from society. All this time I
have thought so much about that unhappy woman (I came near
saying, "young girl"), about her origin, the mysterious
play of Fate which we, blind that we are, designate as blind
chance. Who knows how much seed is left by each person who
lives on the earth, which is destined to spring up only
after his death? Who can say to what mysterious end the fate
of a man is bound up with the fate of his children, his
posterity, and how his aspirations will be reflected in
them, his mistakes visited on them? We must all submit and
bow our heads before the Unknowable.
Yes, Vyéra perished, and I have
remained whole. I
I have become a man--and have heedlessly
shattered a vessel which was a thousand times more precious.
In vain do I tell myself that I could not have anticipated
this instantaneous catastrophe, that it startled even me by
its unexpectedness, that I had no suspicion as to the sort
of woman Vyéra was. She really did know how to hold
her peace to the last minute. I ought to have fled as soon
as I felt that I loved her,--loved a married woman; but I
remained,--and have shattered in fragments a very beautiful
creature, and with dumb despair I now gaze upon the work of
my hands. Yes; Madame Éltzoff jealously guarded her
daughter. She guarded her to the end, and at her first
unwary step, she bore her off with her into the tomb.
It is time for me to make an end.... I have
not told thee the hundredth part of what I should: but this
has been quite enough for me. Let everything which has
flashed up in my soul sink once more into its depths.... In
ending, I will tell thee: I have brought one conviction out
of the experiences of the recent years; life is not even
enjoyment, .... life is a heavy toil. Renunciation, constant
renunciation, Farewell! Formerly I would have added: "Be
happy." Now I say to thee: Endeavour to live, it is not as
easy as it seems. Remember me, not in hours of sadness, but
in hours of thoughtfulness, and preserve in thy soul the
image of Vyéra in all its unsullied purity.... Once
more, farewell!
(End.)
Thine, P.B.
SECOND LETTER
From the same to the same
Thine, P.B. THIRD LETTER
From the same to the same
I tremble--my heart is sore--
I 'm ashamed of my idols.
Thine, P.B. FOURTH LETTER
From the same to the same
Thine, P.B. FIFTH LETTER
From the same to the same
Cover me with thy pinions,
My heart's emotion allay,--
And blessed shall be that shadow
For my enchanted soul....
Thine, P.B. SIXTH LETTER
From the same to the same
Thine, P.B. SEVENTH LETTER
From the same to the same
Thine, P.B. EIGHTH LETTER
From the same to the same
P.B. NINTH LETTER
From the same to the same
"What does he want on that holy spot,
That man ... that man yonder.... " (5)
Thine, P.B.